


Five Birthdays

by BeeLove



Category: Primeval
Genre: Childhood, Dubious Consent, M/M
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2011-07-26
Updated: 2011-07-26
Packaged: 2017-10-21 19:05:23
Rating: Mature
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 6,761
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/228600
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/BeeLove/pseuds/BeeLove
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>In which Connor has five birthdays he could've done without, and one he wouldn't trade for the world.</p>
            </blockquote>





	Five Birthdays

**One.**  
Connor Temple sits at the dining room table – not the kitchen table, because this is a very special meal on a very special day, and special meals on special days are spent in the dining room, not the kitchen – and fixes the huge slice of chocolate cake in front of him with a forlorn stare. As forlorn a stare as a newly aged six-year-old can muster, at any rate.

He puffs out his round, little cheeks, which were already chubby to begin with, to about chipmunk size, and squints his eyes in frustration. His mummy (he's going to have to stop calling her that, if he wants to play with the big boys down the road) cut it for him just a few minutes ago, but he can honestly say he's waited his whole, short lifetime to eat this piece of cake.

It's very nearly impossible to explain how delicious this cake truly is; it is best if one experiences it for themselves. The only way that would happen, however, was if Connor's mummy – the famous, the lovely, Mrs. Coralie Temple – offers the slice herself. The recipe is a well-guarded, heavily protected family secret; she refuses to share it with anyone – even the old biddies across the street who watch Connor when she has to do her shopping.

Connor fiddles with his fork and wonders if it's worth risking his father's anger by nibbling just a small bit. Just a small, tiny bit.

Father always gets so cross when Connor starts eating before everyone is seated at the table. It's something that Connor doesn't quite get. It just seems ridiculously unfair to set a plate of amazingly delicious food down in front of someone, but then deny them the pleasure of eating it. But, apparently, his father doesn't quite see it that way.

As soon as Connor would sneak a minuscule morsel off his plate, his father would spit out horrible, terrible words that made Connor furrow his little forehead in confusion, and made his mummy flinch, flinch, flinch. _Stupid, fuckin' kid. How many times is it going to take for it to sink in? Are you slow or something? Fuckin' retard for a son._

Then his mummy would interrupt, somehow sounding beaten but insistent at the same time. That's enough, Connor. And Connor would look at her, a little fearful, wondering what he had done this time, until he realized she was talking to his father. That was the problem, with having two people with the same name, living in the same house. What a dumb idea, Connor would think, to name him Connor when his father was already named Connor. He didn't even like his father, but he did like his name. So, maybe, his father should find a new name – and a new family, while he was looking for new things – and leave Connor and his famous, lovely mummy alone.

That way, Connor could enjoy his chocolate cake without having to listen to his mummy crying in her bedroom, as his father stomps around, yelling more horrible, terrible words. Connor pouts even more and squirms in his chair. He can smell the cake so thoroughly that he can nearly taste it. The sweet, rich chocolate coats the air in its thick, decadent perfume, until Connor feels utterly saturated in it. It's the kind of cake that will make him dreadfully sick upon overeating, but a six-year-old does not bother with such trifles.

"Mummy?" He calls out, kicking his tiny feet, until the silverware is bouncing on the table. "Mummy?" Connor says again, a desperate sort of whine leaking into his voice. It's quite possible that he will cry if he does not see her sitting next to him, enjoying her own heaping slice of cake. His mummy is not the kind of mummy that says no to sweets. "Mummy?"

"I will be there in a minute, my darling." She replies, just as he's taking in a huge breath to scream her name – or the name that he uses for her, as she is really named Coralie, and not Mummy – to the highest ceiling in the house. "Just, just give Mummy a minute, all right?" And her voice drops, but he can still hear her. "Connor, please stay. It's his birthday, Connor, you owe him that much. Connor? Connor, wait. Wait! Connor, don't you dare walk away from me!"

But he does walk away from her – the Connor who should get a new name, not the Connor who's sitting in a chair, staring at a slice of cake – he walks all the way out of their room, down the hall, past his son, who doesn't even break eye contact with the chocolate cake in front of him, and out the door into the bright October sun.

So Coralie is left, sobbing and cursing to herself, while Connor stares at what is quite possibly the best cake he could ever eat in his entire life, feeling suddenly not hungry. He rolls the fork between his clumsy fingers and stares forlornly, or as forlornly as a newly aged six-year-old can stare, at any rate, at the front door. It's a door that his father will never open again.

 **Two.**  
Connor Temple is used to running. He's usually late for things – classes, buses, appointments, late night movie marathons – so he's accustomed to breaking into a decent sprint every once in a while. It's a skill that will serve him well, once he starts chasing after various creatures from varying times and calling it a career. Except now, on this usually very special day, he's starting to think that this running thing isn't really serving him well at all.

Especially when he's fleeing from someone – or someones – who is far faster than he is. Classes have just finished for the afternoon, and Connor has just started making his way home. There is a cake decorated with fourteen blue candles and a modestly sized pile of presents waiting for him back at their flat.

He doesn't expect much, since his parents split three years ago, and his mum can't afford the extravagant birthdays she wishes she could give him. But she'll greet him with open arms and a hugely proud smile, which is more than enough for him. All he ever wants to do these days is make his mum smile. She doesn't do it nearly enough. Certainly doesn't meet her daily requirements.

Connor sighs, and smooths his hair back before donning the brown pinstripe fedora hat his mum found for him at a thrift store. She had given it to him this morning, just before he left for school, and he had worn it proudly the whole day. He smiles, feeling lighter with the hat on his head, and runs his finger along the brim of it before crossing the front court yard of the school building.

He doesn't get very far – barely even to the sidewalk – before they appear. Well, that's an awfully dramatic way to put it. It's more like they shuffle menacingly in front of him and stand with threatening smiles on their identically stupid faces. There are three of them, but with all the fighting experience Connor has had, there may as well be three thousand of them. And they may as well have swords. And daggers. And spears. Connor sighs and meets their grins with a resigned slump of his shoulders.

"Let's get it over with, fellas," but even as he says it, Connor takes a few steps backwards. Every inch he retreats, they advance. He swallows and, with one hand tightly securing his prized fedora to his equally prized skull, he turns and takes off running. Maybe, if he can make it back inside the building, where there are teachers, he'll be safe.

But he doesn't even get to the front steps, before two sets of hands grab a hold of his shoulders and drag him away. He doesn't even bother calling for help anymore. The other students, willingly oblivious bystanders, turn to look away and pretend to be rifling through bags or talking to friends. Connor clenches his fists and says nothing as his tormentors mutter dark threats and snicker viciously to each other. They make such promises as gonna make you bleed, ya fairy and gonna kick the shit outta you. All things Connor has heard before.

They pull him back around the other side of the imposing brick building, where no one of importance will witness their routine beat up/shake down of the school's resident geek boy. They give him enough of a pause to pull off his messenger bag and set it down, so that it will not be damaged. He's about to reach up to take off his hat as well, when the first hit comes.

His nose explodes in a burst of red that runs down his chin and stains across his cheeks. His head snaps back, almost colliding with the stone of the wall, until two meaty hands seize his jacket lapels and yank him forward, out of reach of concussion but smack dab in the middle of a perfectly-aimed punch. Connor chokes, gagging around the sudden cave-in that is his stomach, and tries to wrap an arm around himself. He's blinded, by blood and sweat and automatic, pained tears, as he falls to his knees.

Of course, he isn't about to get away that easy. The hands on his jacket pull him to his feet, as another set of hands forcibly pin his arms behind his back, leaving him half-doubled over and gasping for a long-lost breath. The hands on his front disappear, as their owner steps off to the side, and another equally faceless dumbfuck takes his friend's place. All it takes is another few punches to the stomach, before Connor's collapsing on his knees, despite the arching pain in his arms.

The whole exchange takes less than twenty minutes, and then they're bored with him. They leave him lying on his side, curled up in a macabre paint spill of his own, pathetic blood. G'bye Connor, they chortle over their shoulders and Connor can barely quell his shaking, till next time, yeah?

How is it that they know his name, when he can't even tell them apart?

He lies there, spasming and spitting up blood, and his barely open eyes focus in on a blurred object resting not a foot away from him. It's a lumpy, brown thing. His fedora, he realizes and he tries to get to his feet. His new fedora, a gift from his mother, his hat, his precious, beloved hat that he only knew for a day, is lying crushed and trampled in the grass. He reaches for it and cradles it against his bruised chest in his bloody hands. This is one scrape that even his mum's chocolate cake can't heal.

 **Three.**  
But wait, let's backtrack for a second. This is one that Connor's forgotten, or that he's forced himself to forget. He never talks about it – never brings it up. It's not that he suffered a great personal disservice, but, it's just... Well. He was turning eleven. And eleven year old kids have their minds on bikes and fancy sneakers and stereos. Expensive things. And, much as Connor would like to say he was a different type of eleven year old, he wasn't. He wanted these expensive things, and he was quite vocal about these wants. And how it must have broken his newly divorced mum's heart...

But wait, let's start from the beginning.

Connor Temple flings open the door to the little apartment that he and his mum share. A few months ago, enough had been enough, and his mum had bundled him up in the back of her car with their bags packed. Not a week later, the papers were signed. The liberation felt good for both of them, but the financial tightening of the belt did not. Connor tries to ignore it, tries to pretend that it isn't real. This is just a game they're playing, and his mum is going to start taking him out to the movies and restaurants again real soon. Real soon.

He drops his bag on the carpeted floor and flops down on the sofa, so that his legs hang over the worn arm of the faded piece of furniture. He kicks his feet as he stares up at the water-marked ceiling, wondering what presents he's going to get this year. Maybe that boom box he's been subtly hinting about, or even those new trainers that all the kids at school are wearing.

"Mum!" Connor yells, sitting up suddenly and swinging his feet down. "Where are you?" He hears her before he sees her. He can always tell when she's near, because of the soft, barely-there sound her feet make when she walks. She's always so quiet, even now that she's away from him, that it makes Connor angry in ways he can't really explain.

"Here I am, darling." She has her arms clasped behind her back, hiding what Connor hopes is the first of many, many presents for the day. "How was school?" He shrugs, and tries to hold back his impatience. "Connor," she warns with a slight tilt of her head. "Tell me about your day."

"Was all right," he mumbles with another shrug. "I got an A on a pop quiz we had in English." Her soft, dark eyes light up as she smiles, and Connor feels a rush of pride that he quickly squelches with a disinterested frown. "S'no big deal, mum. Lots of people got high marks."

"It is a big deal, Connor, cause you got high marks. I don't care how anyone else did," she scolds gently, "but I'm very proud of you." He swallows around a sudden, inexplicable lump in his throat and stares down at his shoes. She coughs and looks away for a moment before turning back to fix him with another smile. "Sit down, Connor," she says with her hands still hidden behind her back. "There's something I want to give you."

He complies, sitting back down with his hands twitching nervously in his lap. From behind her back, his mum presents what appears to be a stuffed, grey Apatosaurus with brown marble eyes and a piece of green ribbon tied around its long neck. Connor stares the dinosaur down for a moment, watching as its neck tilts under the weight of its own head, and glances up at his mum with a quirked eyebrow. "Um. What?" It's all he can manage to articulate, as his mum tries to hold her smile in place.

"It's a Long Neck. Remember, from that movie we used to watch when you were little? Everyday, after your nap, I'd put it on... You couldn't get enough of it." She laughs, and adjusts her hold on the plush so she can look it in the eye. "You," she addresses the dinosaur, "are a Long Neck."

"Apatosaurus, Mum," Connor corrects her in an exasperated voice, and she lowers the toy. "It's an Apatosaurus. It used to be Brontosaurus, but they changed it." He rolls his eyes with a sigh, "Mum. What's going on?" Her smile wavers and she presses her lips together as she sits down next to him.

She holds the dinosaur on her lap, cradling it and stroking along its back and curved tail. "Connor, love," she speaks quietly, slowly, "you know money has been a bit tight, since we left your father." Connor nods and twists his mouth when he realizes where this is going. "And, I just couldn't afford..." Her voice catches and his stomach drops. "I'm sorry, my darling, but things are going to be a bit sparse this year and, I just... I tried, Connor, but this is all we can afford right now."

Connor flinches under the hand that attempts to stroke his hair, and he ducks off the couch. "Whatever, Mum. Wasn't like I was expecting much anyway." He stands in front of her, bouncing a little on his feet, before he spares a glance at the dinosaur on her lap. "Would've been better off with nothing." Before she can even reply, he shrugs. "'M going down the street to get a soda. Be back later."

Reeking of disappointment, Connor flees the room with his jacket flapping behind him, like an ill-placed, undeserved cape. Coralie is left sitting on the couch, staring down at a pair of sympathetic, brown marble eyes and wondering what kind of a mother she really is, when she can't even provide for her only son on his birthday.

 **Four.**  
Connor Temple sits in a bed that belongs to a stranger and shivers uncontrollably. He doesn't know if he wants his eyes open or closed, as he clutches the sheets to his chest, and listens to the unmistakable noise of partiers drinking and dancing until wasted. The wall next to his head is vibrating with the force of the bass, which only adds to the spastic shudders wracking his body.

He feels used.

That's a good way to put it. He feels used, and ashamed of himself and his stupidity. He hates that he's become a statistic – a stereotype – and he hates that he allowed it to happen. He hates that he gave his consent to take part in the debacle that was the losing of his virginity to an almost faceless stranger in the dark. Connor moans in humiliation and covers his face in his hands, before threading his spidery fingers through his mussed and tangled hair. He's sore and ashamed in places that he didn't know existed.

As he sits cross-legged amidst half-clean sheets and pillows, Connor wonders vaguely how it came to this. While he wasn't exactly expecting his first time to be magnificent and lovely and full of oh oh ohohohoh ooohhh, he had hoped, rather stupidly, that it would be at least with someone who had a permanent place in his life. At the very least, it wouldn't happen on the eve of his nineteenth birthday, at some lame Halloween party, with some guy whose name he can't even remember.

Connor flexes his hands – clenching and unclenching them in the bedsheets spread across his knees – and resolves to treat this like a learning experience. He is a student after all. He peers over the side of the mattress, at the pile of his clothes, and makes a promise to never open his legs, or allow anyone to open their legs for him – hey, a guy can dream – unless it's going to make for an enjoyable few hours for the both of them.

Wincing only slightly, and hissing quietly in embarrassingly intimate pain, he gingerly goes about the task of redressing himself. It takes a minute to untangle his shorts from his jeans, as both are black, and he's about to put on his shirt when he realizes it's inside out. How silly that would look, Connor thinks and forces a smile that he doesn't feel, as he pulls the properly sided shirt over his head. His hair probably looks a fright, and he does his best to untangle it by running his fingers through the mess a few times.

He takes a moment to sit on the edge of the bed, his bare feet planted firmly on the slightly grungy carpet, and breathes. Connor rests his bony elbows on his equally pointy knees and cradles his head in his pale hands. He gives himself a few seconds for a tearless cry. It consists mostly of regulating his breathing and staring at his toes. He will come back from this. He will not allow this experience to define his life. Connor repeats these thoughts to himself, over and over, until he almost starts to believe them.

Inhaling and exhaling deeply – so deeply that he can physically feel the push on his ribs as his lungs expand – Connor licks his lips and opens his eyes. Still feeling a little off kilter, a little smudged and grungy, but just the tiniest bit determined, he stands up. All he needs to do is find his friends, let them know he's leaving, yeah of course he had a great time, he's just feeling a bit tired. Then he'll be able to flee to the safety of his shower.

Through the thin wood of the door, he can hear his former bedmate bragging loudly about the goth chick who just let him give it to her in the ass.

Connor freezes and the back of his neck goes cold. The frigid ice spiderwebs across his shoulders and down his chest to settle heavily in his stomach. Feeling blank, he sits down with rigid, awkward movements, until he's once again perched on the edge of the bed. He can't even begin to wrap his already fragile mind around the implications of being called a 'goth chick' by someone who has seen him naked and subsequently experienced his nakedness. As his hands start trembling again, he becomes aware of an odd, animalistic keening noise coming from somewhere in the room.

It isn't until he puts his hands over his mouth, and the brokenhearted whine is muffled, that Connor realizes that he's the source. He sounds pathetic. Even through his fingers and palms, he can hear the gasping, hysterical sobs. They're vaguely similar to the noises he made when his oh-so-attentive lover first... And Connor had tried to mask his discomfort, alter his pitch ever-so-slightly to make the pained whimpers come out as overly pleasured mewls.

Now, however, he isn't holding back. He doesn't make up excuses, doesn't try to rationalize. He just whispers to himself, between hiccups and sniffles and sobs, _happy birthday to me... happy birthday to me._

 **Five.**  
Connor Temple turns twenty-three and everybody nearly dies. It isn't that his aging automatically puts his friends (can he call them that? Maybe he should just stick to colleagues.) in mortal peril-type danger. It's more that, on the day that he finds himself another year older, a particularly nasty anomaly opens up. He and Abby were sitting at the breakfast table, like they do, and Connor was studying his toast, debating whether or not it was worth telling her the personal significance of the date. As he was about to open his mouth, they received the call to arms, as it were, and off they went in a flurry of brightly colored tops and pinstriped trousers.

The anomaly had opened up to unleash Helen Cutter, riding bareback on a velociraptor, commanding a pack of at least a dozen or so other raptors.

Not really, no. Would've been cool though, right?

Instead of a crazed Helen Cutter, the anomalous portal had let through a Spinosaurus – a terrifyingly huge (larger than the T-Rex, Connor surmises with a dropped jaw) dinosaur from the Cretaceous period. They find it near a lake, wading about and snapping its jaws at some obviously unsatisfying fish. "What's it doing?" Cutter leans over to mutter in Connor's ear, as the others just freeze and stare at their time traveling visitor.

"It, uh, well." Connor snaps out of reverie and does a quick search on his ever-expanding electronic database. "Feeding, I think. It's been theorized that the Spinosaurus," he gestures to the dinosaur stomping around in the water, "eats fish. Though I can't imagine our local little fishies are very satisfying, yeah?" He tries to smile, but Cutter's already in business mode, so Connor settles for schooling his face into a contemplative frown. Cutter turns around, putting his back to the dinosaur, and everyone flinches with unrestrained nerves. It isn't that they haven't faced impressively huge creatures before, but this guy takes the cake.

"Aside from its diet, what else do we know?"

"Er. Well. Um. It's... heading straight for us?" It only takes a second for them to react to his stammering bumble of a warning, but everyone's diving out of the way. He and Abby end up taking over in front of one of the vans, where they peak around the sides to see if Spiney is coming their way. "You have to admit," he mumbles as the hired guns take their positions, "it is a beautiful creature."

"Connor." Abby hisses and covers her head with her hands, all the while shooting him a dirty look, as if all of this is his fault. "Shut it." He ignores her, more than used to her snippy, heat of the moment retorts, and watches as their dino friend bellows and swings its tail. He can't help but follow the slope of the sail on its back; the bones must extend from the rest of its spine at least two meters. Utterly wicked, Connor thinks with a smile. He turns to face Abby, all ready to make some other inane comment that will win him a stern look, only to realize she's creeping along the edge of the van and into plain sight.

"Abby," her name comes out as a harsh whisper, but she either can't hear him or is actively ignoring him. "Abby!" He tries again, louder this time, but receives not even a glance back. Taking a moment to close his eyes and collect his thoughts, Connor huffs and goes after her. "What are you doing?" He asks in a low voice when he's close enough to know that she'll hear him.

"Look," she points to where the Spinosaurus is butting its head against one of their vans, "it's going to crush Stephen and Cutter." Connor squints his eyes and can make out the two men trying to brace themselves against the rocking van. "What's it doing? You said it only ate fish."

"Not only," Connor defends himself. "It must be opportunistic. Like a grizzly bear." Abby rewards his random vat of knowledge with a weird, doubting glare, before turning back to assess the battlefield. "What do you want to do?"

"Cause a distraction," she answers with a cheeky smile that doesn't quite reach her eyes, and she darts out into the foray, yelling and waving her arms. Connor curses and lunges after his friend (and just friend), only to end up following her directly into Spiney's line of sight. "Now what?" She asks, as the dinosaur charges them in a lumbering, awkward gait.

"Your idea," he reminds her in a tight pitch, and clamps his hand around her wrist. Their eyes meet with equal looks of hopeless panic. "Abby, run," he orders her, already turning and tugging her after him. "Run and don't look back." They don't have much on the dinosaur, but they take off regardless. When they feel its breath on their backs, Connor starts babbling. "Run, run, run, Abby, run. Come on, don't look back, just keep running."

Gunshots echo through the air, rapid fire bam bam bam, and the Spinosaurus stumbles. It lets out one more pained bellow, before lying still on its side. Abby and Connor turn to face their foe, with their fingers still interlocked; Connor shakes his head as he tries to control his breathing. He fixes the soldiers with a drained, cocky grin, and Abby drops his hand. "'Bout time, boys," he quips and braces himself on his knees.

 **(and the one he wouldn't trade for the world)**  
Connor Temple goes to bed early the night before he greets his twenty-fourth year. They've all enjoyed a lazy day at the office – so much so that the core unit (Cutter, Abby, Stephen and himself) cut out early, much to Lester's dismay. He watches them leave with a very bureaucratic frown on his face, and he turns to mutter something to his secretary. Probably a reminder to dock their pay, Cutter jokes and Connor cringes. He's already worried about rent, and he can't afford a cheap paycheck.

Stephen clasps a hand on his shoulder and leans in close, practically sniffing Connor's hair, to murmur that Cutter's just making fun. Connor covers Stephen's hand with his own and gives it an acknowledging squeeze as he nods listlessly.

"You know," Abby begins with a smile that generally means mischief in some form, "it's still early. You lot feel up to a pint or few?" Cutter agrees with only a tinge of hesitation in his voice, even though the last thing he wants is to be cooped up in his office with Helen's papers and Claudia's scent. Stephen's answer is far more enthusiastic; Connor can hear the smile in his voice as he compliments Abby on the brilliant idea. "Connor?" Abby addresses him with a kind, encouraging smile. "You in, mate?"

"Tempting, tempting," he cajoles and scratches at his elbow, "very tempting, but I'm feeling a bit under the weather. I think I'm gonna make it an early evening." They all react appropriately; Cutter claps him on the back and tells him to get some sleep for once, while Abby fixes him with a sympathetic stare. She makes the shape of a phone with her hand and holds it up to her ear. Connor smiles and nods, and she turns to follow Cutter down the darkened sidewalk. Stephen lags behind as the others start off toward the car park.

"Connor," Stephen hooks his finger under his chin, and forces him to look up. Even so, Connor can't meet him in the eyes. "Why didn't you tell me you weren't feeling well?" There's concern in his voice, and Connor can't help the stab of guilt in his tummy.

He shrugs, and jams his hands tight in his pockets. "It wasn't anything worth worrying about," he emptily tries to reassure, even as his voice falters and shakes. "Didn't want it to seem like I was complaining."

Stephen sighs with a tired sort of fondness, "d'you want me to come home with you, keep you company? I don't mind knocking off the others." He strokes along Connor's cheekbone with his thumb and slightly ducks his head with a smile.

Connor matches it with a shy grin of his own. "Very tempting," he quips again, "but you've been working hard. You deserve a night out on the town, yeah?" He rubs his nose against Stephen's in an intimate Eskimo kiss, "I'll be all right on my own."

"You sure?" Stephen asks and Connor nods. "All right then," he presses a lingering kiss to Connor's forehead, "I'll let you have your night in, then. And I'll try to be quiet when I come to bed." He kisses him again, deeply, on the mouth, and Connor hums against his lips.

"Mm, not too quiet, I hope," he murmurs with a saucy wink. Stephen rolls his eyes, and Connor laughs. "Go on now, your friends are waiting." They kiss once more, to the soundtrack of Abby's catcalls, before parting ways. Stephen holds on to Connor's hand for as long as their stretching arms will allow, until their fingers slip and Connor makes his way to the lot on the other side of the building.

As soon as the others are out of sight, Connor lets his shoulders drop. It's only a little before nine, and he'd usually jump at the chance for a night out, but he's not in the mood. He knows that, when Stephen comes home, he'll have to play a healthy game of dodge the question, while avoiding any and all suspicion. Eventually, though, Stephen will uncover the source of his depression, because he's Stepheny like that, and then he'll wonder what he's doing in a relationship with someone who's afraid of their own birthday.

It doesn't take him long to find his car, even though Stephen drove them this morning and Connor wasn't paying attention to where he parked, and soon he's sitting behind the wheel with his keys resting heavily in his limp hands. When was the last time he looked forward to turning one year older, he wonders and jams the key into the ignition.

Connor lies in bed and stares accusingly at the darkened ceiling. There's a forlorn unease growing in the pit of his stomach; it leaves him feeling empty and deserted. He shivers, cold to the point of freezing, despite his humble nest of blankets, and blames the size of the bed. It's a bed he's used to sharing and, now, without the comforting warmth of his other half curled around him, Connor feels the October chill like an old, aching wound or scar.

Already bored with trying to make sense of the shadows dancing around the room, he turns onto his side, tucks one palm under his ear, and watches the numbers change on his clock. Seventeen minutes past ten. Eighteen minutes. Nineteen minutes. Twenty minutes.

He closes his eyes longer than what constitutes as an acceptable blink, and wills time to pass. He wants Stephen to come home, probing questions or not. He wants his birthday to come, if only so that it will leave. It's been ages since he actually told anyone when his birthday was, so he'd rather this one just stay under chain and lock and key. Stephen has no inkling as to the significance of tomorrow's date – no one in their little inner-circle does. No one except Abby, who found out by pure accident, and was subsequently sworn to secrecy.

Their anomaly-infested routines are simply not conducive to birthdays. Or celebrations of any kind. And, personally, Connor's fine with it. He prefers it that way. It isn't that he has a personal vendetta against birthdays; it's just he's really quite terrible with them. It's actually embarrassing to watch him interact with birthdays of any kind.

Gathering what little courage he has left, Connor cracks open an eye to confront the clock. It politely informs him that two minutes have passed. He groans and rolls over onto his back, pulling the covers over his head as he goes. Self pitying introspection should take longer than just one hundred and twenty seconds.

Exactly seven minutes before midnight, Stephen comes tearing into their flat. He flings open the door hard enough that it bounces off the wall, leaving behind a lovely dent, and slams itself shut. A few precious seconds are wasted as he catches his breath and listens for the tell-tale noises of Connor waking up.

There are none, so he puts his tracking skills to practical use (for once) and begins sneaking through the foyer to the kitchen and finally, to their bedroom. He pauses, looking down at the packages in his hands and then up at the slightly cracked door in front of him.

Stephen can just barely hear the evenly paced inhalations and exhalations of someone very much deeply asleep. He can't help but smile at the sound of Connor breathing. It's a sound he's wrapped himself around as they doze off in front of the television. It's a sound he's crushed to his chest when a creature got too damn close. It's a sound he's made speed up to fever pitch, just with a few well placed licks. It's a sound he's held in his arms, and he doesn't plan on letting it go any time soon.

Exactly five minutes before midnight, Connor nudges open the bedroom door with his toe. "Mmm... Wha's happenin'?" He interrupts himself with a yawn, and rubs at his hair absentmindedly. There is definitely a reason he stumbled out of bed. Suddenly, as if he just materialized in front of him, Connor realizes that there's a Stephen standing in his hallway. "Y're home early. Somethin' wr'ng?" Stephen mutely shakes his head, and Connor nods, somewhat placated, before he gets distracted. "Wassat?" He asks, gesturing vaguely to the brown package in Stephen's hands.

"It's for you," Stephen explains, and Connor's eyes widen in a for me? look of surprise. "Look, Abby told me what day it is. Or, will be," he amends as he checks his wristwatch. "Connor, babe, why didn't you tell me?" The scruffy-faced sleepyhead in front of him is suddenly very awake and very panicked. "What's wrong?"

"I, er. Well. Ah..." He flutters his hands as he tries to explain away a very personal, if slightly awkward, situation. "Long or short version?" Stephen sighs, and puts a guiding hand on the small of his back.

"C'mon, let's talk in the bedroom." Connor hangs his head, but obliges. Stephen presses a quick kiss behind his ear as a reward. They sit down on the bed, knees touching, and Connor leans his head on Stephen's shoulder. "Why didn't you tell me that your birthday's tomorrow?"

"Didn't want to be a bother," Connor admits in a small voice, turning to hide his face in Stephen's neck. "Just forget about it, please? It's no big deal."

"Oh, Conn," Stephen sighs and tangles their fingers together. He strokes the surprisingly soft skin on the back of Connor's hand, and does his best to keep his voice calm. "It's the day you were born. It is a big deal, babe. I wish you had told me." It's then that he lets some of the hurt leak into his tone – the hurt of Connor's mistrust, of Abby's surprise at his ignorance – and he can feel Connor stiffen in guilt. "Talk to me, babe."

"'M sorry," he whispers, face still buried in Stephen's neck, "I didn't think you would care. No one else really does... 'Cept me mum, but she's a mum. Mums are like that." Even as he rambles, Stephen can tell that he hasn't completely gotten through to him.

"Connor, I love you. Of course I care about your birthday. Don't you care about mine?" He winces, already hating himself for the low blow, but it gets the appropriate reaction, at least. Connor pulls back and stares at him with a look that can only be described as affronted shock.

"What? Stephen, really? I... I care about your birthday. I mean, I don't know when it is, but I care about it." He licks his lips and quiets for a moment. In the dim light, Stephen can see his cheeks redden. "Ah, when, exactly, is your birthday?"

"In January," Stephen informs him with a fond smile, "before we started dating."

"Oh. Well. That's good then. I'll make up for it, next year." He furrows his eyebrows in intense concentration, "it'll be really, really good. And probably naked. You like naked, right?" He asks needlessly, tilting his head in such a way that makes Stephen want to kiss the words from his mouth.

"Yeah, I like naked," Stephen does kiss him, even though he has to crane his neck an awkward angle to achieve the desired effect. And he does, as Connor gives into the kiss wholeheartedly with an eager hum. "Hold on, hold on," Stephen mutters, laughing, against his lips. "You need to see what I got you." Connor leans back, looking pleasantly dazed, as Stephen reaches across him to turn on the bedside lamp.

"Got me? What'd you get me? And why?" He pauses and answers his own question. "Oh, right. The birthday thing. That's awfully pesky, isn't it?"

"Awfully," Stephen agrees and hands him the larger of the two packages. "Now, open that. And keep in mind it was half past eleven when I got it and there weren't many shops open. My options were very limited." He's still making up excuses, as Connor gets the lid off the box.

"Oh my God," he breathes as he picks up his present. "You got me a stuffed bunny." He holds it eye-level, and studies it with a quirked eyebrow. It's very floppy, with ginger-colored fur and brown marble eyes. There's a pale green ribbon tied around its neck, and a half smile stitched on its rabbit face. "You got me a stuffed bunny," he repeats as Stephen once again reminds him of his limited options. "Why did you get me..." His question dies on his tongue as he turns to face his other half, holding open a little cardboard box.

Inside is a slightly smooshed, if still ridiculously impressive, chocolate cupcake. The icing is something out of a catalog, all coiffed and glistening and dusted with green sugar crystal sprinkles. The candle, standing proudly erect like a countryman's flag, is a similar shade of green. This is no small cupcake, either. It would easily feed their inner-circle, with a few bites left over. Mr. Ginger Bunny sits on Connor's lap, just as speechless as his master.

"Happy birthday, Connor," Stephen says as he fishes his Zippo out of his pocket and lights the candle. "Hurry up and make a wish."


End file.
